


and yet, who cares?

by amieangie



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Multi, Not typical naruhina, Real Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24086413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amieangie/pseuds/amieangie
Summary: Everything I was afraid of happening, happened.Hinata Hyuga is dead. I faced Pain alone and no one came to the rescue. Now it's just me.And that's my story.
Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Hyuuga Hinata, Hyuuga Hinata/Uchiha Sasuke, Hyuuga Hinata/Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto
Comments: 16
Kudos: 13





	1. Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly: I have like 4 more chapters ready. This is the story from 15 to 24 years older and how so many factors change completely someone's life. 9 years of a rollercoaster. This work is a relate of _real life events, like "based in a true history"_ we see in movies. So, if anyone decides to come crashing calling bullshit or saying this is unnecessary angst or just writing it to get attention, dude, this is what real life looks like.  
> I felt it like a therapeutic way to write my life story down. So, yeah, it will be kinda really OOC, but I will try my best. Well, that's just me pouring my heart open to a bunch of strangers to ignore/dislike/etc.  
> Enjoy your ride.  
> (Wash you hands, eat vegetables, stay at home)

When I was laying a hospital bed, naked beside a gown (that wasn't mine) and panties (not mine) with my head throbbing, my mouth dry and even thinking hurt, I had no idea on why I was even there. When I opened my eyes a bit more, I saw the face of a medic. She had nice brown hair and a sweet voice, a white coat and pity in her eyes. That's absolutely all I can recall. Turning my head ever so slowly so I didn't fucking puke all over everything, I saw an unfamiliar, but familiar face. She was too smiling. She had a tanned skin, black hair and a blue shirt. I could see the IV bag the doctor was replacing and my hair was drying. 

I had no idea where I was (well, I'm not thick, it was a hospital) and had no recollection on how I ended up there. 

I said, in a really hoarse voice that didn't sound like mine, that I needed to pee. 

When I raised from the bed, the whole world spin and proved that Galilei was right and when I almost fell on my ass, Isaac Newton was proud too. 

The ceiling and the people were spinning, their faces a blur, my stomach shrugged and my neck turned hot, but with a drop cold sweat. The doctor told me it was okay. I raised up one more time and walked to the bathroom. 

The first thing I did was check if I was still a virgin — contrary popular belief — and, for that, I was fucking grateful I still was and nothing hurt and no blood soaked my fingers. The second, was cry. I leaned my head in the bathroom cabinet and cried. I tried to swallow the sobs, 'cause I didn't want to be displayed as _weak_ [said the girl that was half naked in a hospital with the worse hangover in the world with people she didn't even know], so I took steady breaths and got out the cabin. 

Looking in the mirror, I gotta confess I don't remember my face. I think is better this way. I know how I looked after getting blind drunk and I didn't want to see that at that moment — in any of those in my whole life, to be honest, but, I made that to myself, so I was the only one to blame for the shame of being _that_. 

How can you loathe yourself and keep making the same mistakes? Well, because you like the pain. 

I washed my hands and came back to the room. They explained me what happened: I drank too much, like too fucking much (half a bottle of cachaça and a whole bottle of vodca) and then I began to throw up and couldn't make sense out of a single world. When I wasn't getting any better, my friend took me to her house (and I kept trying to kiss her. Well, I kept trying to kiss _everyone_ that night. Even the guy I fucking hated. Kisame. May his soul burn into the fucking hell. [You will understand why]) and she had to give me a bath. A 15 year old that couldn't stand on her feet and needed her friend to hold her and wash her in an attempt to make me feel better and sober up. I probably did, because she told me I stop throwing up — which is a fucking bonus, 'cause I was throwing in the toilet and in a fucking bucket when I wasn't fast enough to reach the bathroom. 

Then, they took me to the hospital when the nurses and doctors were actually nice to me (they never are for those that are just blind drunk), but I had alcohol poison and entered in a coma, so they were nice. I woke up 12 hours later and then, right there, was the beginning of my dance with booze. A dance I always stomped on my feet, but pretended it was a part of the choreography. 

When I got home, I couldn't stand the smell that was glued to my jeans (I splashed vodca on my thigh accidentally). I entered the shower full clothed and cried again, this time freely. I couldn't eat the whole day and the room was still spinning and I could taste disappointed and vomit in my tongue. I slept the whole day. 

When I woke up the next day and went to check twitter, I found out that I had 15 new notifications, which was a fucking lot since I had 200 followers. And what I read made me go to bathroom and try to puke, but I couldn't. I shove my fingers down my throat and nothing came out, so I couldn't expele the disgust towards myself. 

All the notification were my friends making fun of me. I could consider it bullying. They kept on that joke for days. I tried to migrate to a fan account I had with friends, that didn't love me anymore and left me, but they changed the password. 

I could've choked on my sobs and died, the beginning of a lonely drunk no one loved anymore. My old friends left me a few months before — but I had the anonymity; I had play friends, that didn't know me. But then they decided to take it from me. My new friends saw the mess I was when I got drunk and them, too, decided it was best to leave and laugh. 

It all happened in the same day: I was coming out the worst experience my youth had brought me (I got stood up that night as well; twice. That was a reason why I got so shit faced. And I was trying to come in terms with myself and being bissexual, which was such a crime 10 years ago. So I drank in order to get loose and kiss whomever was there. Unfortunately, it was just the prelude of my life: get fucked up and alone, being laughed at.) and I was realising how _alone_ I was. Because I built a fragile friendship there. Not just one, but some. They were skeletons, but I still had people. 

Oh, how foolish, how silly. I wish life would come with a warning to people like a me. A billboard, big and in all its glory, glaring at me with its too bright lights, yelling at my face

> _stop crying over people that didn't want to stay_

Or, if it wanted to be less poetic, to be crude and rude, just tell me: they will shatter your heart and you will let them; don't let them; don't be a fucking idiot

> _everyone leaves and no one cares that you stay_

But no one told me that. So I made some friends here and there. I smiled and had crushes over my teachers (really, when I finally managed to get into Kakashi's pants it was paradise — too bad it didn't last more than 30 minutes because I was a virgin and they found us. Too bad he was married.

When I got into Asuma's pants and my friend from the church got as red as a tomato I couldn't tell her we just made out in the party because he was blind drunk and that Kakashi's dick was bigger — the telltale about asian men is a big, fat lie. I never told this to anyone. Even less that I was a fucking whore for the professors and — that's why I had to check if I was a virgin and that's why it goes against popular belief.) 

I am known as a whore ever since I was 12.

When I was 12 I kissed for the first time. His name was Lee, not that it matters. I was so in love with him that it hurt. He was the first guy to fuck with me. Make a complete fool out of me, for almost four years. I was his puppy, always there for him. We kissed once and he played with my fucking heart, with the stupid possessing thing that we once find romantic; making me jealous, making me go after him, making me use other boys just to get to him, just for him to notice me. [There was a day my mom locked the door of the room where the computer was and my windows have heart shaped grille. I warped them to get into the room to talk to him. Now tell me if he cares.] 

In the meantime, I decided to fall in love with another boy: Kiba. The fucker. The girls had a thing for him. He was new in the school, he was cute, he had angel's hair and baby blue eyes. I had it bad for him too. 

One day, out of the blue, some guy came to me in a way men never touched me — it was sexy and I felt like a woman, because he grabbed my waist and talked to me like I was pretty and hot, looked at my breasts and my ass and _I liked it._ I was the ugly goose compared to my friends. And then my dreams came true. 

_28th of November 2008_. 

Kiba and I kissed. It was perfect (it was clumsy as fuck and we barely held hands, everyone was watching and racketing). 

A few months later, I found out he only did it because of a bet. 20 bucks. That's what I was worth. A fucking joke, uh? 12 years old and I was that pathetic already. 

Oh, and don't forget I was a whore already.

But the day came. My fragile friendships that were swallowed in those three years that culminated in the fall: the lone drunker no one wants. 

That was the day I was born. I wasn't the Hyuga Heiress, the Princess of Byakugan anymore. I was Hinata.

My life ended that day, and began again. But it's not in a Fenix way. I was born from the ashes, but I didn't turn into a pretty, aspirational bird. I was reborn as ruins from Pompeii, besides the beauty of it. 

You can also refer to my fucking life as: disaster, calamity, catastrophe, _devastation_ , misfortune, misadventure, mishap, vicissitude, tribulation, affliction, blight, adversity, sad event, serious accident, blow, pain, sorrow, misery, distress, agony, unhappiness, sadness, disappointment, bummer.

A piece of shit is as fitting. 

  
  



	2. Elephant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the day I die.

During the vacation, I survived. I became Hinata, then. I was hinatahyuga, the perfect girl, with top grades, her head low, making people laugh, but with zero confidence, always behind someone. 

At the end of the year, yeah, I felt a little better because a guy chose me over a friend in a party — it tastes bitter compared to all the other parties I went and every night I cried myself to sleep because no amount of makeup or tight dresses, no one spared a glance at me. 

I once used a very, very nice dress. He was black, glued to my body, a high neck and with some sequin at the top, making it look like a cropped. I painted my eyes all black and let my lips go nude — someone told me that you have to choose if you want to drag attention to your mouth or to your eyes; if you go for both, your just look like a prostitute. 

My parents dropped me there are 23 PM and I felt like an adult, going to a part so late at night. A boy, I don't remember his name (I met him again when I was 18 and the way his eyes homages all over my body made me smile) asked me:

\- Don't your feel like suffocating?

\- No. - a cut, clean, fast.

But when I got home, it echoed. 

\- Don't you feel like suffocating?

\- Yes. - slow and painful.

I cried on the way back home and my father noticed, but I lied to him. I've always been good on that. 

Yet, I died. It was just the beginning. It was a  _ petite mort — _ without the refractory period after the orgasm; it was just little beds in musical beds _. _ I was going to die so, so much more, but at least as Hinata. At least now I knew who was dying, because that first time made me dizzy. I didn't know where to place my feet or what to do with my hands. I didn't know how to choke my sobs or how to scrap my eyes out, when stop breathing or when put my feet up on the cold tile I've been lying on for the past two hours. 

It was all a matter of time. Hinata was born like a baby in a bad environment. You know what Jean-Jacques Rousseau said: the man is good from nature, he's born good, but the society corrompe him. He believed that people in the state of nature were innocent and at their best and that they were corrupted by the unnaturalness of (civilization) fuckers. So, I was reborn to be good, just to have all my bones shattered and my heart torn to pieces, all the butterflies in my stomach choking the air in my king.

Oh, Hinata, thou shall know Pain. 

I managed to escape my so loved friends, but when the class began, I finally reached the start of the Hell.

You see, when you're a bloody 15 year old, everything is a tragedy. Tragedy is a rather complicated word. 

**trag·e·dy**

/ˈtrajədē/

noun

  1. an event causing great suffering, destruction, and distress, such as a serious accident (me being born), crime (stealing the opportunity of better sptz) , or natural catastrophe (everything I've done in my life).
  2. a play dealing with tragic events (alcohol, drugs, unsafe sex, self harm, every single thing I've done) and having an unhappy ending (oh, oh, we know where this is going), especially one concerning the downfall of the main character (yey, me!). 



I like googling words to see their meaning. I always learn something about them I didn't know before. Just as I learnt my name should've Tragedy — if you translate it to enough languages you can even pretend you're not saying "tragedy". 

* * *

See, the thing is, I started having depression at age 12, but it was shoved aside 'cause dad had other pressure manners and your wanna be dead daughter ain't wanna those. But, at 16, it came crashing in as a train wreck down my face.

All my friends left me. Just left. 

At the beginning, they kept making puke sounds every time I walked in a ten meter eyesight.

They — as they, you take 'the boys'. There's always a bunch of boys that are friends, no matter if they have something in common or get along. Remember Kisame? I never liked him, but he was one of the guys I tried to kiss, because I just try to kiss people when I'm drunk. And he took the leader role on making my life a little private Hell. Everywhere I went, there he was with his friends. Friends that weren't even there — which always makes me wonder  _ what people say about me when I'm not looking _ . I tried to shake it off, to ignore it, to pretend it wasn't there. I rolled my eyes, walked in their direction to leave, I sat where I wanted to. I wasn't running anymore. But I still cried in the bathroom when I went there to smoke. 

Then, my 'best' friend found a girl much more like her and I was shoved aside, even sitting by her side. The other two girls I've come to love simply stopped talking to me. The guy that smacked my face and pulled me to the floor by my hair at least had left, but his best friend kept kicking my chair, and the only friend I had moved out of the country. I was left, past tense of  _ leave  _ and that word never felt so heavy in me.

There were 100 people in my class. A hundred. And, yet, I sat on the first roll, the left session, three seats to the side. I just entered the building and spent five hours, every morning, in a corner, like a street cat or a kicked out dog. I had broken paws and my tail between my legs, but I still barked. 

When I messaged the boy that was friends with Kisame, the one I was closest to, Kotetsu, I was presented for the first time with the concept that followed me for a long, long time. He basically told me to fuck off, but the words stroke me. 

"You're too mesh and a douchebag. Don't talk to me."

I know it sounds vain and  _ pathetic _ . I've been called so many things that  _ mesh _ and  _ douchebag _ are compliments, but, boy, how it hurt. I lived my life trying to fit in, to please the others, to belong — and I never managed to. 

I wanted to kiss Kotetsu the night I got myself in a comma and yet Kisame thought he was the shit, but both ruined me, the very firsts. Raise your glasses.

And, for so much pain I felt at the time, how tragic it all was, I'd exchange anything to live the teenage drama again. Life was shitty at 15, at 16 life was hard. 

Wasn't it supposed to be just some boys and drama and fighting with your parents? 

Why the fuck was I the lone wolf, quiet, oh so quiet, they could sweep me with the dust by the end of the day and not even notice.

So, after being left alone in a room with a hundred people, I couldn't leave the house anymore. I had panic syndrome. 

Ever heard of?

It's hell. It is your mind telling you you are going to die — and you believe it.

This panic disorder slash syndrome slash hell on earth is an anxiety disorder constituting by recurring unexpected panic attacks (truly unexpected. You can be at a bench in the park, sippin' your coffee in the morning, taking a shower, washing your dog. It hits you like a brick from the tenth floor. It takes you to the ground.). These attacks could be described as sudden periods of fucking intense fear with the whole set of palpitations, sweating, shaking, shortness of breath, numbness, and a feeling that something terrible is going to happen. It lasts minutes, but it is a whole lifetime flashing through your eyes and you can't shut them. As for the reason, well, there may be ongoing worries about having further attacks and avoidance of places where attacks have occurred in the past, too much stress, places you feel uncertain or intimidated or your anxiety just built up to a level your brain shortcuts and you can't breath anymore.

I have a nice theory on how it could've began and a nice place I avoided — like when the bloody fucking piece of shit boy swooped the floor of the girls bathroom with my face, and no one did nothing. They didn't even believe me. I was left with bruises and a broken finger. 

It was gym class. He was drunk, because we used to get drunk in gym class because who the fuck cares, yes, no one. I went to the bathroom, one of those with a lot of cabins. When I heard voices, I assumed my friends went there and when I left my cabin there it was: him, Deidara. We were best friends — just as best friends 15 years old get. He was gay. 10 years ago it really was much more of a taboo. I was so deep in the closet Narnia was a fucking joke. So he was my friend, I took him under my wing, I defended him and then people started to talk to him. I don't know where he started to hate me. But he did. Deidara fucking hated me and everyone knew. It was a boiling pan that was ready to whistle. He eyed me the entire day, so I spent the entire day so glued in my friends ticks would be envious. It was just a slip. 

In the bathroom, three of his friends, me, skinny and with a bad dyed hair and him, drunk, tall and blonde. I tried to leave, but he hit me. It was the first time a man hit me. I broke my finger when I tried to stop his hand. He grabbed me by my hair and threw me at the floor. I tried to kick him and he fucking used this. It was all a blur, as everyone says. I got up and washed my hands. I was convinced to keep it to myself, don't tell it to anyone. Why should I? It is stupid. A guy just hit me, threw me to the ground, broke my finger, pulled my hair so strong that it hurt for days. A guy convinced me to tell the teacher. It was Deidara's word against mine, because he decided to tell as well. He said I fucking kicked him because he was gay. 

When I got home I was adamant on never telling my parents. I cracked in ten minutes. The next day, everyone knew about. My friends were worried and they were all there, with me, by my side. It didn't last a week. 

We proceed to sue him, but my father got soft and dropped. I spent four months locking myself in the bathroom every time his friend, Anko, tried to beat me. And the next year as well. But, hey, everyone was by my side, so I didn't have to worry. 

And, with time, I began to avoid so many places that I couldn't be out of the house for more than two hours. Shopping, supermarkets, crowds, shows, college, every where there had too many people made me feel like dying. 

So, in the middle of all of it, I went to a birthday party, sleeves tugged to my thumbs and I still didn't use red lipstick. 

I've know the girl, Ayame, since forever and when I popped in her house my old classmates were there. There was this girl, Jana, that fucking hated me. I don't know if you will notice this pattern, but I will break it for you: a lot of people hate me just for the sake of it and I have no clue on  _ why. _

And Hana was one those. And she never tried to hide it. Even less in that evening. There she was, loud as ever, with her fucking huge breasts, beaming and laughing, as I sat at the corner and spend ten minutes counting the tiles of the floor and then how many seconds it took for the fish to swim back and forth. 

Eventually, it became too much and I had to go to the bathroom. Crying at his rate was the thing I did the most, so I just let it go. Everything hurt and I hated,  _ hated  _ those people, hated them so much that I hated myself because it was  _ my _ fault they hated me. 

So, we come to the point on the timeline in which eight years ago, in a very nice September evening, in the bathroom of one of my best friend's house, I made a  _ nasty _ cut in my wrist. 

I had a lot already, but I can see him still, along with the other 200 ones. It stained the carpet and I couldn't apologise.

I eventually had to go downstairs and say, with my throat constrict, that I couldn't go. I remember the sound of the tires in the rail. With they gone, I smoked cigarettes with her grandma and my mom had to pick me up and I finally decided I had to go to a psychologist. I didn't show her my arm.

I also found out my friend cut herself too, but after that day we never spoke again. 

One less person.

* * *

The psychologist was a fucking homophobe, but I saw her eyes widen when I showed her my arm. I cried at the bathroom and punched the walls. I had just realised I liked girls (after having my first orgasm watching a video by T.A.T.U where the girl is masturbating and all you see was her face, but it was enough for me). With the epitome of an homophobic asshole for a father, it was hurting too much already besides the doctor shitting me, but at least, two days later, there I was at the psychiatrist. 

It was a busy clinic. Too much people for my taste. It was still the time my father was around to take me to my appointments. 

The doctor had a vibrating red hair and she hated my parents. At the time, all we did was fight and I was bearing the weight of knowing my father was cheating shamelessly on my mother, but I couldn't tell her because she had nowhere to go.

The medic was too choked and asked me if I had schizophrenics on my family. I swallowed hard. I had just told her about the butterflies: whenever you feel like cutting, drawn a butterfly in your wrist. And I did. With my blood. I laughed of the morbidity of the situation and I thought I lost my mind. Probably so did the woman, with her cherry hair and a disgust for my parents. (When she told them they should get therapy, they hated her. I wish they listened. They never do.)

A month later, I had the appointment again. The pills she gave me were too weak and within the first week, I tried to kill myself for the first time.

I took seven pills. I recall it perfectly. My room was drawn in a different way. I got up and downed seven pills. When I woke the next morning, I had yellow drooling. I found out when I was interned that it is a minor overdose, our body's reaction to a bigger amount of medicine than we are used to. It wouldn't have killed me even if I wanted to — which I did, so it's ironic.

I cut myself in the previous night, at dawn, before the appointment. My thighs, for the very first time. The next day, I felt so much pain I couldn't walk. I told her that, sobbing and there would be hot traces of mascara down my face if I wore make up — I stopped wearing some months ago, when I threw my mirror at the garbage. She didn't intern me, but my parents switched professional. They didn't like when she told them the truth: they were ruining me and they were the ones that needed to seek help. My father was livid and mom was went with it, as she always does. 

So, my next doctor saw how fucked up I was and decided for the best move yet: get me so high I wouldn't be able to even think about hurting myself. 

I became a zombie. My limbs were always heavy and my mind always foggy. One day, I knead to tie my shoe and just stood there for 30 seconds, frozen. My mom cried and my sister just felt lost, 'cause she didn't know why her sister was insane. 

I don't recall most of those  _ years _ due the medication. And, well, the drugs. 

Yeah, the drugs. 

The first time I did cocaine I also smoked five joints and drank God knows how much. I also had sex for the first time. The guy was gay. His name was Hidan or something like this. We met again once or twice to snort some, but we never had sex again. But we made out a few times at nightclubs. That's what my life was like. 

When I come to think in how that day was, I try not to over think it my ears will burn with shame. 

We did coke at the dinner room glass table. We smoked some joints watching TV and drinking coca cola with something much cheaper than rum. I don't remember when I went to the bedroom with Hidan, I just remember being there. It was a shared bedroom and we were at the mattress on the floor. At my right, was a bunk bed. The boys who were with us at the living room were at the bedroom now too, going to the other bed at my left. A 14 year old boy was on top, laughing his ass off our moaning and I was laughing too. I was too high to realise I was having sex with three voyeurs. As I found myself in this situation more often than I like, I was the only woman there.

We didn't get out of the covers, but I can still hear the boys laughter. Later, when I went to take a piss, I realised I put my panties on the wrong side. It is a reminder that I didn't imagine that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we fucking go.  
> It is hard for me to be so open about my life, once it is 100% open to every single person in the planet, but it is also freeing. It's kinda weird to say "hope you enjoy", but hope you do, somehow.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my life's story. I dont know why I chose to write this, I truly dont. I am pretty open with my story, I am really good at writing so I have bunches of texts on facebook that people love and always come to me to say how fucking strong I am and how much they admire me for surviving through all I've been through. But I wanted to say it all.  
> And it had to be Hinata. It _had_ to be. I was never that shy, but I lived in people's shadow for too long and I got tired of it. Let's say my life began when she faced Pain. I faced pain too, but in a different way. I understand if no one reads it. You dont know me like my facebook friends. But here is my life.


End file.
